


Trials

by Independence1776



Series: Tyrant Spells [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consequences, Gen, Trials, part of a dark AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Independence1776/pseuds/Independence1776
Summary: Maglor talks with Nerdanel and stands trial before the Valar.





	Trials

**Author's Note:**

> The final story in this series will be posted in early summer.

Mother and I walked forward after Finarfin vanished into the crowd, Ohtarë behind us both. King Olwë looked steadily at us as we approached, his arms folded across his chest. The crowd near him grew silent as I stopped in front of him, Mother several paces back.  
  
“I--”  
  
Olwë held up a hand. “I will take no apologies now, Son of Fëanáro. Go to your doom.” He gestured to his right and the crowd parted to show a black carriage drawn by four black horses.  
  
I bowed and walked down the corridor formed by living bodies. I kept my gaze on the carriage and met none of their eyes. It did not matter at the moment if they thought me arrogant or unremorseful or ashamed or scared or whatever other reason they would concoct from my behavior. They were secondary. My fate lay in the Valar’s hands.  
  
I settled myself on the cushioned seat, my bag tucked between my legs. Mother sat next to me, her broad shoulders brushing mine as she shifted around to make herself comfortable. Ohtarë sat across from us and closed her eyes, apparently considering herself off duty at the moment. The Maia coachman closed and locked the door before climbing aboard and setting the horses into motion.  
  
There were curtains pulled back from the windows, but I did not close them. The last time I had seen Alqualondë was during the Darkening, lit by torch light and Fëanorian lamps and other types of lanterns. Now, it was sunny and Alqualondë lit up like I had never imagined. Mother-of-pearl shown as accents on many houses; shells were inlaid in the walls; rainbow shades of paint covered many buildings-- Alqualondë had both changed and remained static. But the streets…  
  
They were lined with people, all of them silent. I saw faces I recognized here and there in the crowd, one of whom I was sure I had murdered in the Kinslaying. But I made no move to close the drapes. They clearly knew who was in the carriage; let them see that I would not hide.  
  
I closed the drapes after we passed through the outlying neighborhoods and into farmland. Alqualondë I could handle, but the Pelóri were strange and unsettling. Facing a trial-- a deserved one-- I would either have time to deal with them later or… not at all.  
  
The Valar were not Morgoth. How I coped with living in Angband would do me very little good here. Bravado was not an appropriate response. I no longer had almost nothing to lose.  
  
I sighed and leaned my head against the cushion. Mother said, “Do you want to talk?”  
  
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eyes. “What is there to discuss? I know my crimes. I know they are indefensible.”  
  
“Your life in Beleriand, perhaps?”  
  
I turned to look at her. “I assumed that you would know the major events.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Makalaurë. We may have learned the overall happenings, but that _doesn’t_ mean we learned the details of your lives. Tell me what you and your brothers did, how you lived.”  
  
I glanced away and then back. “Only if you tell me what happened after… after Alqualondë.”  
  
She smiled. “I will. I assume you know nothing?”  
  
“Only that Arafinwë rules and there were changes to the landscape. I didn’t talk much to anyone in the Eldarin camp.”  
  
She nodded. “The Pelóri were the major change, apart from the sea defenses.”  
  
“I commanded an army to protect a gap in Beleriand’s defenses. We used cavalry.”  
  
We carried on the conversation that way, trading happening for happening and detail for detail, until we stopped for lunch at an inn… on the outskirts of Tirion. I revised my assessment from “good horses” to “Maiar.” Which made me think about Huan and what happened to him after he died-- there was a chance he’d returned to Aman in shame. Or had he remained disembodied on Middle-earth?  
  
The inn was deserted with only the employees around. I raised my eyebrows and said to Ohtarë, “Did the Valar arrange for us to be sequestered?”  
  
She shrugged a shoulder. “It’s likely. Where do you want to sit?”  
  
I looked around the empty common room filled with tables and booths and a bar against the far wall. “I don’t care.”  
  
“Fine,” Mother said, and sat down at a table in front of a window overlooking the street. I glanced at her and instead followed the sign painted on the wall pointing to the toilets.  
  
Once done, I leaned against the sink and looked at myself in the polished bronze mirror: the gray sprinkled liberally through my hair, the raised scar, the almost invisible divots from other tortures. I shook my head, breaking myself away from the memories, and returned to the common room. Mother frowned as I sat across from her. “What’s the matter?”  
  
I lightly said, “I have more gray hair than I suspected.”  
  
I knew I would have some-- all of the thralls that had either escaped or been deliberately released did, though the amount varied. Morgoth and his followers had kept my hair shorn and never let it grow beyond a couple of finger-widths in length, out of an intent to humiliate me as well as for cleanliness. In the weeks since my release, it had grown enough to cover the points of my ears, not really long enough for me to see. I had never asked the healers if there was a mirror available; vanity had not been-- and still was not-- a priority. Not anymore.  
  
She said, “There’s more black than gray.”  
  
I don’t think she quite knew what to say, but I took her comment in the light it was intended. The innkeeper set down two plates of steaming noodles covered in a basil cream sauce, topped with several meatballs each, before I could respond to Mother. I ate rather than continue the conversation. She had refrained from asking questions about Angband, but the colors of my hair drew too close to it.  
  
After lunch, we resumed our ride in the carriage. From its speed, I knew we would arrive at the Máhanaxar by sunset. I settled myself in the corner of the carriage, closed my eyes, and tried as best as I could to rest.

 

*

  
I stood tall in front of Manwë in the Ring of Doom in the light of the setting full moon and the Fëanorian lamps placed in strategic locations around the ring of thrones, bringing enough light to see by but also creating deep shadows in the spaces between and behind the thrones. From the susurrations and quiet murmurings, I knew people-- Ainur or Eldar-- stood in the shadows. Yet I had faced Morgoth and survived; the Valar would fail in intimidating me if they dared try. And they had indeed tried.  
  
Manwë studied me with sky blue eyes, his hair as dark as a threatening storm and his skin as white as thin clouds at noon. Varda sat next to him, her black hair lit with tiny lights and just as pale as her husband. I did not look at the rest of the Valar, though I could feel Námo's stare from directly behind me. He would have no pity for me.  
  
Mother had told me during the carriage ride that Father would never leave Mandos and no one knew if my brothers would.  
  
Manwë stared down at me and said, “For twelve months, you will live in exile on Tol Eressëa.”  
  
I nodded. That was less than I’d anticipated, given my trial had commenced shortly after sunset when I’d arrived at the Máhanaxar and it was now near dawn. Though I had also half-expected to be sent back to Middle-earth permanently despite the choice Eönwë had given me.  
  
He continued, “Once those twelve months are ended, you are remanded to King Olwë's custody.”  
  
_Olwë's_? I felt the blood drain from my face, though many years of practice of not reacting to the Enemy’s taunts kept my voice steady. “Why him?”  
  
“King Arafinwë recused himself. King Ingwë refused to have anything to do with the House of Fëanor. Most importantly, you directly and deliberately hurt and killed King Olwë's people. It is to him you must answer.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
I did. The logic behind my sentence was sound. But that meant all of my guesses about my punishment were invalid. I had no idea what to expect from Olwë or his people.  
  
“You are dismissed.”  
  
I bowed shallowly and left the Ring, passing by Námo's throne and ignoring his continued hard stare. Ohtarë took up her usual position beside me the instant I stepped outside of the Máhanaxar. Mother embraced me and said, “I wish you had time to see my home. Stay on the beach where they drop you off and wait for me. You should not be alone.”  
  
She kissed my cheek and walked away, disappearing into the predawn dimness and the crowd before I could ask her if she truly meant to live with me in a warped mirror of Grandfather Finwë following Father to Formenos.  
  
“Shall we?” Ohtarë said.  
  
I nodded, picked up my pack from where Mother had left it on the ground, and reentered the carriage that had brought me to the Máhanaxar from the quays of Alqualondë.


End file.
